My husband loves to collect objects with a bit of history attached to them.

A few months ago he “found” an old dressing table by the side of the road and brought it home.

I have no idea which era it was from, but it was definitely in a retro style – 1960s or 1970s maybe.

Everyone who saw it… baulked and recoiled in horror.

I didn’t hate it. I just wasn’t too pleased that it was *suddenly* a part of our home.

But my husband saw some charm in it, and yes, even I had to agree, that it was “amazing” – in that it was in PRISTINE CONDITION.

We weren’t sure what to do with it, so in the meantime it sat on one side of our living room.

Now I love my husband.

He puts up with my overflowing wardrobe, my mountain of shoes, my need to glue-tack “pretty stuff” on the walls and my stash of Asian snacks in the pantry.

He puts up with my shit. And I put up with his.

With a smile of course.

However.

While he was overseas for 4 weeks… I tried to move his beloved dressing table to make room for some shelves.

I knew I couldn’t lift it, so my plan was to slide it. I lifted up a front leg the *tiniest bit*, so I could slip a towel under it (so it wouldn’t scratch the floor). But I mis-judged the weight of the mirror.